


An Honorable Man, A Fool

by CrotchetyOldLady



Series: Foolhardy [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Introspection, POV Jaime Lannister, Post-Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 22:37:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18765682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrotchetyOldLady/pseuds/CrotchetyOldLady
Summary: He just wanted to finish the game, it's only right, but it's so damn hot with those eyes staring at him. She's too damn good for him, but he can't help himself.orJaime's thoughts during 8x04 shed some light on his actions.





	An Honorable Man, A Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Yes another reaction fic to ep. 4. Like many others I had a lot of feelings so I had to take a break from my other fic to cope, so let's all cope together. 
> 
> Also, I didn't tie in Cersei's pregnancy at all because I think it is a boring, stupid, and half-assed storyline.

After the battle Jaime hardly left Brienne’s side. They parted to bathe and rest for a short while immediately after, then in the afternoon they worked together to sort the dead which took until well into nightfall. When dawn has risen again he stood next to her at the burning, then sat across from her at the meager celebration feast that follows. Though the food is lacking, the drink ran freely and the living were giddy with survival.

They ate in mostly silence in the beginning until the food slowly disappeared and the drink finds purchase. Not long after Jaime finally got Brienne to sip a bit of wine, his brother wandered over with eyes bright and mischievous, climbing onto the bench to perch beside him. 

“It’s much to quiet over here. Let’s play a game,” Tyrion said.

“What kind of game do you suggest?” Jaime asked, smiling slightly.

“A drinking game of course. You guess something about the person and if it is true they drink,” he explained. 

“Why not?” Jaime shrugged. “Ser Brienne?” 

“We’ll play,” she replied for both herself and Podrick, grabbing her drink. 

The game was good. They were laughing and drinking and even getting to know each other a little better, until Tyrion ruined it all. The imp always did take things too far. Brienne left. Jaime hadn’t intended to follow her really, until that loud wilding mess had tried to do so. But when he left the dining hall he changed direction. He walked the walls, watching the merriment, the drinking, the fucking, the celebration of life, the attempts to forget the dead, to forget the threat still looming. 

His sister. His hateful, power-hungry lover. A woman who was almost a stranger now, it had been so long since he had last seen her. And even when they had last been together she had had been so different than the twin he had grown up with. His affections had withered and changed, he had changed. A piece of him would always belong to her, it was undeniable, but the desire to be held by her, to feel her kiss was gone. When he thought of kissing now a different woman filled his mind.

Brienne was no stranger. He knew her, and she knew him. She understood deep parts of him that Cersei had never cared to explore. Brienne cared for him, more than he deserved. She was too good for him, he knew. It was why he always kept a careful distance between them, when other men may have acted long ago. But he was still only a man and a selfish one at that, so when he found his way to Brienne’s chambers with more wine in hand he could not stop himself from knocking on her door.

“You didn’t drink,” he said when she opened the door to him. He was only here to finish the game, then he would leave. 

“I didn’t drink?” She was too good for him by far.

“In the game,” he said, setting down the wine and cups. His hands were shaking like a foolish young lad’s.

“I drank?” She sounded confused and he didn’t blame her, he was blathering, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

“In the  _ game _ ,” he repeated. “This is Dornish.” As if she cared, as if he did. He poured the Dornish wine, feeling half out of his mind.

“This is not a game. This is only drinking,” she said. She’s right, she’s always right.

“Suit yourself.” He handed her a cup, because that  _ is  _ why he’s here, with her, alone in her chambers at night, a little drunk. 

She gave him a look like she thought maybe he had gone mad, but drinks. He watched until she looked at him again, then he had to turn away, he should leave now. But it is so cold outside and he cannot bear the thought of walking out of this warm room. Speaking of warmth, he was suddenly stifling under her gaze and must walk away.

“You keep it warm enough in here,” he huffed, facing away from her. He has to get this jacket off, he’s too hot, too constricted. He struggled, flailing a little, to rid himself of the offending garment with only one working hand. 

“It’s the first thing I learned when I came to the north—keep a fire going, everytime you leave the room put more wood on,” she said, after setting down her cup. He could tell that she was facing him again. Watching him struggle.  

“Well that’s very diligent, very responsible,” he mocked, finally getting the damn thing off and letting it fall to the ground. 

“Piss off,” she rolled her eyes at him. This was good, this was normal, their banter. 

“You know the first thing I learned in the North? I hate the fucking North,” he couldn’t help but keep it going. As long as they were bantering he knows what he is doing. Words and japes are what he is good at. There was a small smile on her face, and one on his too he realizes.

“It grows on you,” she replied, her voice too soft for normal banter. He couldn’t stand it.

“I don’t want things growing on me,” he said, going back to the wine. “How about Tormund Giantsbane? Has he  _ grown _ on you? He was very sad when you left.” He hated the words as they fell from his mouth. There was no doubt he is a true fool.

“You sound quite jealous,” she replied, her voice still too damnedly soft.

“I do, don’t I?” What use was there in denying it? He would only make himself out a worse kind of fool. And it was as close to admitting his true intentions as he was bound to get. Her big, beautiful blue eyes only gazed at him. He does not think anyone has ever gazed on him just so and he was aflame.

“It’s bloody hot in here,” he gasped, tugging at his collar, at the knot that is tied so tight it’s suddenly choking and he won’t be able to breathe until it is off. 

He has just slayed hundreds of dead with this left hand, but it was suddenly so useless it cannot even untie a loosely knotted string, the same one it unties every night before bed. Or maybe it was his foolish mind that is useless. Dammit all. He wrenched with shaking fingers and tugged with his teeth as she was silent. Until she slapped his hand away roughly.

“Oh, move aside,” she snapped, taking control. Her strong hands work at the closure, brushing against his skin and tugging him closer to her. Jaime felt his pretense fall away.  _ This  _ was what he truly came here for. He reached for the laces to her tunic, but once he has touched them she stilled his hand with her own.

“What are you doing?” He looked into her eyes, seeing the uncertainty there.

“Taking your shirt off,” he finally spoke plainly. 

She looked at him and gently drew his hand away. Had he thought wrong, did she not feel for him as he did for her? She would push him away now, as well she should. Though his heart was already aching at the thought. But to his amazement she continued his quest of undoing her laces, her fingers making quick work, where his own would have stumbled. When she was done she made quick work of his shirt too and then shrugged completely out of her own.

“I’ve never slept with a knight before,” he whispered. He did not say he had never slept with anyone before who was not Cersei, but Brienne knew this and still she stood before him half nude.

“I’ve never slept with anyone before,” she admitted what he already knew. 

Then you have to drink those are the rules,” he japed, he was never very good at being vulnerable. Cersei loathed vulnerability. 

“I told you—” she began, but Jaime’s patience was at it end.

He kissed her. He rose to his tip toes, pressing down on her hungrily. He grabbed her neck, her head, her face. He had never waited so long and so desperately for something. She pressed into him. Maid she may be, but she was not shy now. 

Her fingers clutched at his sides, scrambled around his back, pressing his shoulder blades to pull him closer, but he pulls away, only to trail his mouth down her neck. He ran his fingers softly across the large bruise near her right clavicle as he worked his mouth on the other side, near the bear claw’s scars, determined to leave a new, better mark. Her fingers are in his hair as he worked his way to her breasts. 

They are small certainly, but they are beautiful for they are hers, and when he laid his mouth over the peak she arched into him, making a sound unlike any he has ever heard from her before, and he thinks they are the most perfect breasts in all Winterfell, Westeros, the world. He brought his mouth back to hers and led them blindly towards the bed. She sat when her knees hit the back of it and stared up at him with those devastating eyes of hers.

He wrested himself of his bottoms and boots as quickly as possible with his single hand. Naked, he knelt on the floor in front of her without breaking eye contact and wrapped his fingers over the hem of her breeches, waiting. She nodded, grabbing the other side to help him tug them down. He was forced to stop looking at her long enough to wrestle off her boots and finally take her breeches completely off, leaving her bare before him. 

He kissed his way up her shins, lifting them to reach her calves, the insides of her knees. He nipped at the swell of her strong upper thigh, drawing a yelp that he couldn’t help but grin at. His body is between her legs now, which he can feel trembling on either side of him. He runs his hands up her thighs, hips, to her stomach.

She jerked and hissed when the cold of his golden hand touched the delicate skin there and he grunted apology, leaning back to take it off. He wrestled with the straps and buckles, much more complicated than any knots, until she leaned forward and took control again. She has it off quickly and thrown it to the side, placing her wonderfully large lips against the red, puckered skin there. 

He caressed her cheek, none but a maester has ever touched him there. By the seven, this woman was far too good for him. She turns back to him for a true kiss, she hunched over, he on his knees. With his stump he pressed against her side, he pushed her back onto the bed and with his other hand urged her legs to spread wider. She obliged laying back and opening herself to him. 

He touched with his fingers first, featherlight and reverent, and just that caused her to jump. He spread her to him, the most private part of her that she had never shared, never trusted with another. He kissed her. Her legs clamped down around him at the simple gesture. He lays his head on her thigh and stroked her hip from bone to side, waiting for her to relax again. Her shaking fingers brushed against his hair as she loosened her grip. He returned to his previous position and kissed her again.

She still jumped, but did not restrain him again. He explored her, finding out what made her squirm and sigh, gasp and clench, until she she had the furs fisted in her hands and was wound so tight he can tell she is about to explode. He pulled back. 

Panting, she lifted up just enough to peer down at him. He grinned at her, making a show of licking his lips. She huffed, flopping back onto the bed, he couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. He kissed her there one last time before moving his lips up slowly, hip bones, stretch marks, a beauty mark, belly button, this freckle, that one, the underside of her left breast, the side of it, the top. She was squirming again, hands restlessly roaming the parts of him she could reach. She breathed his name as he kisses the underside of her other breast, a plea for more, so he gave it to her, sucking the reddened peak, brushing his teeth softly over the nipple before switching to the other.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her more fully onto the bed, his mouth never leaving her skin for more than a second at a time. When they were situated he finally brought his lips back to hers as frantic as the first time. He placed his weight on his handless arm and used the hand he does have to reach between them. 

She broke their kiss with a gasp when he moved his cock to touch her there and he froze, afraid that maybe his luck had run out. But she cradled his face gently, giving a trembling smile. She kissed his brow, the corner of each eye, his nose, a scar on his cheek, his chin, the corner of his mouth, and when she finally placed those precious lips of hers over his own, he pushed inside her.

Everything he has ever done has led him to this—a moment he does not deserve, a moment he will treasure till his last. 

He was still more for himself than her, he knew he would not last, there had been too much wine, too much anticipation, too long since he had sought release, and she was far too tight. But the wench was impatient as ever and rolled her hips beneath him. He kissed her, letting his thumb glide over the top of her sex as he started to move. 

He had brought her just to the edge before without letting her fall for this reason. He doubled the ministrations with his thumb as he buried his face in her neck. Her hips were moving too now and she was repeating his name her grip getting ever tighter on him. Not sure how much longer he could hold out he bent and sucked a nipple into his mouth, working it mercilessly. 

Her hand flew up to her mouth, biting the knuckles, keening around them, her back bowed, shoving her chest harder into his face, her thighs clenched so hard around him they trembled, and she squeezed him so tightly and deeply that he was undone himself. His head pressed into her sternum as he cried her name.

He slid out of and off of her, laying on his back to catch his breath. She fell asleep quickly, rolling onto her side, after all it had been a long day, and night, and she was unused to drinking wine. But Jamie could not yet sleep, his mind would not let him. Things would be different now. 

Brienne made him want to be a better man, she made him want to live. He knew the troops would be marching out soon to fight Cersei, but he had no desire to go with them. He had decided to leave Cersei behind him when last he left King's Landing, the man he wanted to be would not go back. His battle was over now, he had done what he had intended when he rode North alone. Although he had not  prepared for the after, now that after was upon him he wanted nothing more than to stay beneath the furs with Brienne. So that is what he decided to do, turning to face her he finally closed his eyes and slept.

He woke the next day with her dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed. He crawled to her and laid a kiss against her neck. She gasped, turning to face him, and he took the opportunity to kiss her fully. She kissed him back for a few moments, before pulling away.

“Good morning,” he smiled. She sighed and gazed at the morning light peeking through the cracks in the window shutter. 

“What are your intentions, Ser Jaime,” she finally asked. He flinched at the honorific, she was trying to put distance between them. He didn’t blame her though, they had not talked much last night and his situation was complicated at best. He sat cross legged and wrapped a fur around his shoulders. 

“To be with you,” he said, and she turned to meet his eyes for the first time. “Even it means staying in the fucking North at the home of a lady who despises me.”

“After the battle I think it may be more dislike than despise,” Brienne joked back. She stared into his eyes for a few silent moments. He would never tire of looking at those eyes. “You will not join your brother then? You will not go back to King’s Landing?”  _ You will not go back to Cersei? _ He heard the question she did not dare ask. He shook his head.

“I won’t be any great help to my brother and the Dragon Queen  _ does _ despise me. There is nothing for me in King’s Landing.” He broke eye contact with her because it was too much suddenly. “I can be of use here. I can help rebuild, repay the Starks for some of what I took from them, although I’m sure there is nothing I can truly do to ever make up for—” she interrupted him with a kiss.

“I am glad,” she said and stood up. “I will inform Lady Sansa now as there is to be a strategy meeting this afternoon.” 

She made to grab her armor, but Jaime jumped from the bed and intercepted her. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, pressing his naked body against her rough clothing.

“Let me help you,” he murmured. 

A blush rode high on her cheeks as he caught her eyes flicking to his form, but she nodded. Together the made quick enough work of it, even with his single hand, and she left with a final kiss. 

He spent the day helping clean rubble, until Tyrion found him late that afternoon and asked to share a drink and so he accompanied his brother to a nearby inn as the sun began to fall. After washing his hand and face quickly, they sat to drink and talk. 

“I had an interesting discussion with Sansa before the meeting today about your plans to stay in Winterfell as her guest,” Tyrion said. Jaime braced himself. “I can only imagine this has something to do with the knight you disappeared with after our game.” Jaime shrugged, he was not sure what his brother would think of this decision.

“So, she’s going to stay here with you?” Tyrion asked. 

The resulting conversation was a pleasant surprise, he had rather expected his brother to be cynical and disparaging, not so light and glib. Bronn’s rude interruption though spoiled the evening a bit, bringing up Cersei just when he thought he had left her behind. His sister would never let him go, not while they both lived, but Bronn seemed certain that would not be the case for much longer. 

He went straight to Brienne’s chamber after, finding her much as he had last night though they were both quite sober now. He kissed her without preamble this time and undressed without excuses. It was hard and fast, desperate. They lay side by side after, panting, and the words spilled out of him. 

He told her that Tyrion was happy for them. He told her about Bronn, about how he punched Tyrion and shot a bolt next to Jaime’s head. That Bronn had been hired by Cersei, but Tyrion bought him off, but only because Bronn was so sure that Cersei would be defeated. They had sat up while he spoke, she clutching furs to her chest.

“You’re leaving,” she said, blinking her now glistening eyes. 

“No, no,” Jaime gasped, cradling her face with his hand and resting his stump against her neck. “Nothing has changed.” She kissed him, he felt wetness on his cheeks.

***

After everyone had left Winterfell they fell into a sort of routine. Brienne spent most of her days with the Lady of Winterfell, standing guard, giving council, whatever was needed or wanted of her. During the times Lady Sansa wished to be alone, Brienne could be found any number of places—training, checking weapons, helping the rebuilding efforts—and sometimes Jaime even managed to convince her to participate in other recreational activities. Jaime spent his days helping wherever he was allowed.

At night they were always together. They explored each other, got to know each other even better. And not just their bodies, although that was certainly a part of it, but everything else that made them who they were—their pasts, childhoods, people they had lost, people they missed. There were a few topics they avoided though, Cersei was rarely mentioned, and they never discussed the future unless it was merely about their plans for tomorrow. The future was a black maw of uncertainty ready to devour them and until the war was over it felt pointless to discuss.

But then that damned letter came and changed everything. 

The news is a blow he cannot recover from. A dragon is dead, one of the queen's most trusted advisors as good as dead, because he knows Cersei has no mercy left in her and any prisoner she takes is just a dead man walking. 

Bronn’s words echo back to him. That he knew Cersei was dead the second he saw those dragons, but it was only dragon now and his sister apparently had an effective way of killing it. That he would bet on the Dragon Queen to win, but the odds would change if a hand or a few top generals disappeared. Though Missandei was not necessarily a top general, she was as trusted, if not more so, than the Queen’s Hand. 

Dammit all. Damn Brienne for believing in him, for making him want to be a better man. Damn him for letting her, for loving her. Damn his sister for her greed and cruelty, for her selfishness and power. Damn the Dragon Queen for her hubris.

They undressed quietly for bed that night and Jaime wondered how many times he had slept next to this woman. In the past as her captor, then her travel companion, then tenuous friend, now as her lover. He had slept next to Cersei as a young child, but their explorations of each other had ripped them apart early on and they had only slept next to each other as lovers once. 

His love for Cersei had always been tainted, hadn’t it? His feelings for Brienne, love though he dared not call it such, on the other hand, was so easy, so good. He made love to her then, tried to express all the words he could not say. He kissed every part of her, every freckle and scar, memorized her, worshipped her. He had never been a religious man, but she could make him believe, she could make him something he could never have imagined. He brought her to completion thrice, with hands, with mouth, with his entirety, before allowing himself to find solace in her one last time. 

As he had hoped she drifted off easily afterwards.

Brienne would do everything in her power to stop him and he did not trust himself to not just give in to her. He would give her everything, he would give her the world. He dressed quietly and sat in front of the fire. He didn’t have to do this. It would be easy to take his clothes back off and slip beneath the furs. It would be selfish and he had always been a selfish man. 

He turned to Brienne,  _ a man of honor _ she had called him almost a month, a lifetime, ago. He left.

He was almost not surprised when she arrived in her robe as he made final adjusts to his horse’s saddle, she was ever the vigilant and perceptive knight. She grabbed him and begged him and cried and he had never hated himself more. He shoved that hate into his words as he reminded her of every terrible thing he had done, reminded her of how much he had loved and had been devoted to Cersei.

When he called himself hateful it was true. Only a hateful man would leave a woman, a knight as good as Brienne like this, crying in the dark and cold. Good. She should hate him, she must hate him, she must believe that he doesn’t love her, that he has chosen Cersei. She  _ must _ . 

If she knew the truth she would follow him. She would beg her leave of Sansa, who would not deny her most trusted, loyal confidante. Brienne would vow to protect him and she never broke a vow. She had never run from a battle, but if he allowed her to run into this one it would be her last. And then what would have been the point of any of it? No, this was the only way. 

He rode south to relive his past with thoughts of royal blood coating a golden sword, of hateful green eyes so like his own, of the most beautiful blue eyes seeing him for what he could be, was meant to be, of oaths and honor. 

**Author's Note:**

> This or some version of this better be true, or else they've completely shit on Jaime's character worse than ever and what is even the point of any of it??
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, comments and kudos make my day!
> 
> I also have a couple paragraphs/ideas for a part 2 featuring the aftermath with Brienne. I could be convinced to flesh that out if there is enough interest ;)


End file.
